PART IDelia Mako, shipwrecked, unable to rescue herself nor believe in the possibility of rescue in any form whatsoever, had all but given up any claim to understanding how life worked even though she had read numerous books on the secret to; a) abundance, b) bliss, c) coupling, d) determination, e) enlightenment.
Delia had made a study of all of the above but was as of yet, unable to put her findings into a reliable method of; a) attracting, b) being, c) coexisting, d) deserving, e) earning or f) financial acumen and was at the time of this writing; a) alone, b) broke, c) confused, d) destitute, e) evicted, and f) forsaken. None of it a joy to write about or admit to.
After thirty years of reading up on the subject of personal fulfillment and/or growth, as well as the divine, Delia was now washed up. There was no reason to deny it any longer or to pretend another book could tell her something she didn’t already know, at least intellectually. She understood the following concepts:
*that you should focus on the positive,
*that you can and should affirm what it is you want,
*that God is within,
*that happiness is all in your mind and as such, a choice,
*that you can heal yourself and help to heal others,
*that we are all one,
*that love is all there is,
*that you can overcome obstacles with the proper perspective,
*that you should be the change you want to experience,
*that you can rein in Prince Charming with the right attitude,
*that you have a magnetic field that attracts or repels,
*that your aura is who and what you are,
*that you can visualize what you would like to have, be, do,
*that your vibrational frequency determines your life,
*that this frequency can be tuned for stronger reception,
*that there is money out there-you are just blocking its path,
*that you should operate with intention,
*that you should flow,
*that you will improve your life if you meditate,
*that to forgive is divine wisdom,
*that there is indeed a divine design for your life,
*that you just have to have faith,
*that there are angels looking out for you,
*that you have a shadowy side and that’s okay,
*that you have to accept what is before you can change it,
*that where you are is exactly where you need to be,
*that now is the only time,
*that fear is the opposite of love and nothing else exists,
*that we can choose something else,
*that there is no death, ergo, nothing to fear.
That is a sampling of Delia’s wisdom and she had no doubt that all of the above statements were true. She had had moments when they crystallized for her, but they were a flash event and did not really change her day-to-day life. She did not feel let down by her reading but instead by her own inability to comprehend and put in the fix. She just wasn’t capable of sending out enough positive vibrations and once she finally grasped that fact, admitted it to herself (there was only herself) she spent a few days completely at a loss as to how she would carry on without this crutch. That is how she now saw her addiction to philosophical exploration.
She would never let any one know just how many titles she’d read, getting most of them from libraries, her own bookshelves filled with literature, art and a few of the more esoteric guides that could be said an aid to intellectual inquiry along with the accepted philosophers-Kant, Socrates, Plato and Aristotle. In this shaky sub-category she housed titles by Gurdjieff, Krishnamurti, Alice Bailey and the poems of Rumi, titles she felt she could defend if need be, if her shelves were looked at with a critical eye.
She kept two of her favorites, A Course in Miracles and The Science of Mind hidden under her bed. These she didn’t care to explain to any one but she embraced the philosophy of both and furthermore thought they were written with great style. That is why she was sorry her life had turned out so badly; she had been certain with such powerful prose, she could thrive. Beatifically wrought sentences that were supposed to lead her out of darkness and into a life of abundant joy-happily married, healthy, financially secure-or at the very least, with peace of mind. Instead her composure was destroyed by the fact that in this, as in everything else, she had failed, unable to carry out perfectly detailed instructions that would dignify her life.
Why? Because, she reasoned, her mind was too narrow, her will too weak, too instilled with negativity to change. She was born to a negative mother, who was born to an even more negative mother and before her, Hungarian horrors-women too scary to go near. Delia knew this because she had studied old photos in her grandmother’s albums. These were the kind of women who would hit kids with a stick just for the hell of it-their faces looked like they could tussle with a grizzly bear and win. Delia knew from what she came and it wasn’t pretty. She often wondered how she turned out so docile, so pliable.
Delia was a product of the first generation with a wide-spread belief in redemption-a duty, in fact, to wholeheartedly seek the holy grail of happiness and enlightenment. If all else failed, drugs could do it for you. She tried drugs in her younger days but they wore off and there you were, still grounded in the every-day isness that seemingly was not to be evaded for more than a few hours at a time. To Delia, this was not the change she was looking for. She was looking for a permanent solution even though she had learned that all is impermanence. This philosophy had something going for it; it meant her suffering, too, was impermanent, reminding her of the biblical saying, this too shall pass. Delia was essentially without cynicism. She wanted all the aphorisms and platitudes to be true-she tried whenever possible to give herself up to their transformative qualities.
On the day Delia turned fifty, she took stock: She was flat broke, unemployed, still single, several failed careers, few friends, no pets, uncomfortable and estranged from family, out of shape. Recently she’d had a very bad haircut. It would be hard to find someone whose enlightenment bore so little fruit. Delia thought she would, on her birthday, have a book-burning party. She would burn every self-help, inspirational or esoteric/theological/philosophical title she’d ever read, including the Bible and the Bhagavad Gita. She lived in a city and could no more ignite a bonfire than she could gather all of the offending titles. Instead, she looked up as many of them as she could recall reading, using Amazon and the library for her research and after printing out a long list, set it on fire in her sink.
She cried a little, after all, this was her birthday as well as her last month in her cozy efficiency apartment, and she was sentimental over books that had been encouraging, ever since a boyfriend in college gave her a copy of Ram Dass’s Be Here Now when she was just twenty and living in a commune.
It could be said Delia had done her part seeking enlightenment, empowerment and improvement. Others might look upon her worldly failing and cite various reasons but only she would know how deep it went, how many solutions were offered, only to be unspent, wasted on Delia. Therefore, on her fiftieth birthday, she determined she would heretofore, go it alone.
She would wrest God from her consciousness, bar Jesus from the garden, laugh hysterically at the Buddha, ridicule all Hindus, disparage the Dalai Lama. She would despise the Koran and its followers but wouldn’t dare say so lest they send an assassin her way. She would mock Catholics and Christian Scientists alike. Any alleged miracle worker to appear on TV would instantly be tuned out. All espousers of positive thinking would earn her scorn. She may still be hopeless but at least she wouldn’t be gullible. Delia Mako would not be made a fool of any longer.
For a time immediately after the burning, she read books on atheism, books that attempted to tear asunder the concept of God and others written to expose the myths of the positive-thinking industry, self-awareness and new-age gobbledygook. These negative titles gave her a sense of taking control of her life-she wanted to avoid charlatans and Delia liked this muscular skepticism. But old habits die hard.
One day she read a news story that mentioned Gurdjieff’s name in connection with someone who had been a follower. The journalist referred to the guru as an obvious sham without question and Delia’s old surge of loyalty had her sending the writer a sharply worded e-mail demanding to know how she came to her conclusions. Delia did not care for the article’s tone-its judgmental flavor. Did the woman know for certain Mr. Gurdjieff was a sham? What did she base her hypothesis on? Delia knew she was back-sliding by this defense of a man whose book she’d recently, metaphorically burned. Later she would say to herself, of course, he was a sham-but at least he was an amusing sham who helped many people. His was an intellectual con at least, with music and art. Katherine Mansfield herself was a devotee.
In the end, Delia was left with Emerson, that stalwart of enlightenment, the rationalist whose strength was housed in pragmatism. Delia bought a book of essays thinking they would ground her in reality while offering sustenance. She thought his name on her shelves nothing to be ashamed of: hadn’t he been lionized for over a century? Self-reliance was his motto. Delia knew she had been anything but. She had relied on the fanciful and look where it had gotten her? Homeless, living in her car, nearly arrested for vagrancy, eating at soup kitchens, every one she knew or had ever known unaware of her circumstances and she unaware of theirs. Her cell phone was disconnected-she wouldn’t call for help anyway.
She still had some pride though she understood from her reading that it should be shunned along with the ego, two dictators of the psyche, blood brothers whose mission was to keep the mind and body in bondage. Delia was a little put out because she had a puny ego and was not riddled with pride; had nevertheless been willing to form a resistance to each, only to be informed what you resist persists.
Delia Mako, persistent resistance persisting did not know if she should give in to the ego’s pride and go it alone or challenge its authority over her and phone someone. It was just one of many conundrums in Delia’s life brought on by reading too much on a subject that continued to contradict-except when it didn’t.
PART II
“Ms. Mako, you say you have no place to sleep. Where have you been sleeping?”
“In my car.”
“You have a car then?”
“Well yes, had a car. It’s been towed.”
“So your car is here in the city?”
“Yes, locked up somewhere.”
“Have you tried to retrieve it?”
“I have no money.”
The social worker, Ms. Graciela Lopez with extravagant fuchsia fingernails stared hard at Delia and Delia attempted to return her stare but faltered slightly, possibly from hunger.
“Do you have any friends or family in the city?”
“No. I am from the Midwest originally.”
“How long have you been in San Francisco?”
“Twenty years, off and on.”
“And when you are off, where do you live?”
“Redwood City.”
“Do you have family or friends there?”
“No. I once had a friend there?”
“How is it, Ms. Mako, after twenty years in this city you have no friends here?”
“They have all moved away. I used to have a nice circle of friends, artistic types mostly but they had to leave the city because of the high rents.”
“All of them?”
“Well a few are hanging on living in rooms or their rent-controlled apartments.”
“And you can’t stay with them?”
“They are men and I am not in touch with them, not close friends.”
“Where is your family?”
“Florida, Minnesota, Texas.”
“Can you stay with them?”
“I have no way to get to them, but no, I don’t think so.”
“Have you been tested recently for AIDS, Ms. Mako?”
“What has that to do with anything?” The questions in general were beginning to provoke Delia but this one brought out the antagonism in her. The personal probing, combined with hunger had set her teeth on edge.
“Well, we may be able to place you in a facility but we need to know a little about you and your…shall we say…situation. When were you last tested for AIDS?”
Delia took a deep breath and said, “I have never been tested for AIDS, Ms. Lopez, I am what used to be referred to as an old maid. I have no reason to believe I might possibly have AIDS, thank you very much.”
“Please understand, Ms. Mako, I am required to ask certain questions. You will also be required to take a drug test. Will this be a problem for you?”
“I do not use drugs, Ms. Lopez. The last drug I used was in 1979 when I was given a Valium--was told it would relax me. I had been robbed.”
“Do you smoke pot?”
“Not since 1980 at a party. I didn’t inhale.” Delia tried for humor but it fell flat.
“What is your alcohol consumption?”
“I used to like a glass of wine with dinner but it has been some time since I have been invited to dinner anywhere. On my own, I do not consume alcoholic beverages, Ms. Lopez, I do not have the money for it. I am happy to eat these days.”
Ms. Lopez looked skeptically at Delia wondering whether to believe her. “Well, you’ll be tested for everything, Ms. Mako. It’s required. We have to know where would be the best place for you to be treated…”
“Ms. Lopez, I do not need nor wish your treatment. I am simply hungry. Believe it or not, people fall through the cracks without the aid of drugs or alcohol or prostitution. Surely I can’t be the first one in this economy?”
“I just do my job, Ms. Mako. Folks on the street usually have many problems and it is my job to find out what they are and refer them to the proper agencies. If you say you have no problems, I don’t understand what you are doing here. You must have someone you can turn to. Where are your parents?”
“I have no parents, thanks for asking. They both passed away ten and fifteen years ago.”
“Have you never had children?”
“As I said, old maid.”
“What, if any is your religious affiliation, Ms. Mako?”
On this Delia had to pause before answering. She wobbled but in the end said, “I am an atheist, Ms Lopez.”
Ms. Lopez looked at her with a subtle censure. She was instructed not to encourage or proffer any religious values, but inquired only to place the client in the proper setting. Many churches offered beds to women and Ms. Lopez thought if she could say Delia was one of any of the city’s affiliations, it would be a start. As it was, she had no way to ascertain where and with whom Delia would be accepted. Most of the homeless shelters catered to drug addicts, the express purpose to keep them off the streets and out of trouble. Most of the churches accepted women with children before single women. Organizations affiliated with Alcoholics Anonymous had beds for alcoholics. Ms. Lopez was not quite sure what to do with this middle-aged white female without a category or a specific need for the rehabilitation brigades. Normally it would not be a problem, she could be put in any of the shelters that had space but that was the problem: there wasn’t any space since the economic downturn. So many lost their jobs, those who were hanging by a thread before, fell. The system was strained and Ms. Lopez had turned people away; those able to function on their own. Delia was one such woman; in decent health it appeared and yet without a place to sleep or clean up. Ms. Lopez noted that though her clothing was appropriate for a middle-class woman who might have once had an occupation, it was worn out, much too big and in need of a laundromat. Her hair and nails needed attention but she could see that Delia had only recently arrived in her present condition, she did not have the look yet of a street person. Remnants of another lifestyle could still be noted.
While Ms. Lopez was busy taking notes, Delia was thinking about her admission: Atheist. So new was this idea it did not yet sit well with her, she felt undressed with such a label. Delia had been for many years, talking to God regularly. And she could honestly say it was a two-way conversation. This gave her a great deal of comfort but now she thought maybe she was just plain crazy; obviously it had not saved her. But God, like drugs, are hard to break up with. She thought of the old quip, Religion is the opium of the masses, from Karl Marx. Delia was beginning to understand this. God has left her in the same situation as drug addicts, alcoholics and the delusional.
PART III
It was true Delia had been living in her car, nearly arrested for vagrancy. Not only was she often told to move it, it was nearly out of gas, the insurance about to expire; Delia had to sell it fast. It was worth a couple thousand dollars and she put an ad on craigslist for it but had no phone number for contact and had to keep going into the library to use a computer for e-mail responses. This required she stay parked close to the library as she tried to drive as little as possible hoping the last tank of gas would suffice until the car was sold. Once it was sold, Delia would have money to get a room and food. She was losing weight and needed to get a pair of jeans from a thrift store. The ones she’d been wearing for the past month had to be belted up with six inches of excess fabric. Now the belt could not be made tighter and she used a bathrobe chord to tie them up. She dared not spend any money on anything superfluous but thought she would look less like a vagrant if her pants fit. Her sweater and coat, although now three sizes too big, could be made to look normal if she wrapped them around her. Once she could no longer hide in the car, she would have to make a stab at looking normal-at least she wanted to. Delia did not like attracting attention to herself, preferred anonymity in her low condition. She would have to eventually sleep in a homeless shelter and knew she would have to explain herself and this she was not looking forward to. Her interview with Ms. Lopez was only half as bad as she expected it to be. If humiliation was to be her daily diet, she had to at least communicate with some semblance of pride.
Before Delia herself was destitute, she once volunteered with a group that provided meals for the homeless. She did not imagine then that she would one day be in the same situation but then we never do. There but for the grace of God go I, another volunteer had chirped merrily. Delia was secure in her faithfulness then to think, My God will never forsake me. She ruefully laughed at her naiveté; now she wasn’t even certain her God would help get her car sold even if she sold it for less than it was worth. She wouldn’t even bother to ask. She knew she was entirely forsaken and her growling stomach, dirty cloths and greasy hair said it all.
After her interview with Ms. Lopez, Delia was given a voucher for meals in a church and also a bed in a capacious former warehouse that had been set up for the purpose of keeping people off the street. There were showers, but you could only use them three times a week. You were given a weak cup of coffee or tea in the morning and at six you were put out on the street to make your way through the day before you could return in the evening. The women were on the second floor and the men on the first. There was a TV in one corner but no chairs. The beds consisted of small foam mattresses on the floor, with one blanket and a pillow similar to those given on airplanes. The lights went out at 9:30 and silence was to prevail. This was not a shelter that housed children-women with children were in a building two doors down. All personal items were checked but you could furnish your own pillow and blanket if you had them. If it appeared you were drunk or high, you would be tested and lose your voucher. It was a strict set-up for which Delia was thankful. Ms. Lopez told her the rules were made because some folks had trouble sleeping or controlling themselves in general. The rules were to maintain some order and give people a chance to rest in peace. When she said “rest in peace” Delia immediately thought of death. Did she realize she had just likened the homeless to the dead? Delia didn’t want to think too much about it; it was just part of the horribleness she had been forced to endure once her car was towed while she was in the library checking on the possibility of its sale. She replied to several responses feeling hopeful. But when she returned to her car, it was not in the parking spot and an old Chinese man came from his house and told her it had been towed. He jumped around and laughed at her with an evil toothless chortle. She did not take it personally; Old Chinese people laughed at misfortune, it was just their way. He did not know her life just took a turn for the worse; a life already run down enough to sicken one. Delia promptly threw up on the sidewalk.
On her first night in the shelter, Delia was so demoralized, so tired she fell asleep and had to be prodded awake in the morning. She drank the coffee and wondered how she would spend the day on the street. Ms. Lopez had made an appointment for her with a counselor where she supposed she would have the threatened tests. She was passed from Ms. Lopez’s ministrations and would be taken in hand by a Mrs. Leka Chang. Delia had a business card with her information on it. The appointment wasn’t until three in the afternoon so she had the day to spend somewhere, she supposed the library.
On the second night Delia had recovered somewhat from the trepidation and lay on her piece of foam thinking about the day and Mrs. Chang. She was tested for drugs and alcohol and the hard-nosed woman seemed a little put out at finding both tests negative. Delia was questioned on her former address, her bank accounts, her family. When Mrs. Chang couldn’t get a handle on any of it, she looked Delia straight in the eye and said, “You have to work. You able-bodied, sound mind, you go to work. You will take job I find for you and be happy. You be available immediately, Ms. Mako.”
“Of course. Unless I need certain clothes. They are in my car which the city has locked up.”
“I give you voucher for Goodwill stores; you be assigned someone to help put working wardrobe together.”
“Mrs. Chang, I have been putting a working wardrobe together for thirty years. I can manage. I am humbled, not stupid."
“Ms. Mako, forgive me, I be blunt: you not managing so well, are you?”
“No, I clearly am not. But I think I might still be able to dress myself.”
“Very well, Ms. Mako. Let’s move on. I place in job. Tell me you experience, if any. What your last job?”
“I managed a bookstore.”
“Managed?”
“Yes, Mrs. Chang, I am, you see, quite capable. What is missing is that the retail book business is almost washed up. Haven’t you heard?”
“Before bookstore, what job you hold?”
“I was a reporter.”
“Reporter, in newspaper?”
“A legal journal.”
“Here in city?”
“Yes.”
“Why you leave jobs?”
“Personal reasons.”
“Did you get fired from jobs?”
“Certainly not.”
“What skills you have? Computer skills?”
“The basic computer skills that anyone has. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Okay, Ms. Mako, I see you tomorrow morning here at ten. You go on job interview. You show up on time dressed for work. Here clothing voucher, get suit or a skirt and blouse.”
“I could use some jeans that fit.”
“Shop wisely, Ms. Mako and show up here in suit or dress. Do not come late”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t screw up, Ms. Mako, this your chance to get back on feet.”
Screw you, she thought, but said, “I’ll be here, don’t worry.”
Delia was not trying to be difficult, she was happy Mrs. Chang had plans for her but why the need to talk down to people? Things are hard enough. Naturally meek as we learned, she nevertheless turned back to Mrs. Chang and said, “I didn’t do anything to earn anyone’s ire. I am willing to work, I always have been. It is not my fault that I was laid off, that no one wanted to hire me before my unemployment ran out.”
“I see you tomorrow, Ms. Mako. We check for AIDS.”
Delia sighed and let it go. She wouldn’t win this power struggle.
As she was drifting off to sleep, the sound of a woman crying three pieces of foam down from her made Delia forget her own troubles for a moment. The lights had just gone out, the young black woman was a late arrival. The first reaction when hearing someone cry is to ask why. That would be foolish here, Delia thought. We should all be crying. Those not doing so should be asked why. Still, she wanted to know what was making her so sad. Delia had a reporter’s curiosity. She got up and went over to where the woman was lying, face down. “Is there anything I can do for you?” Delia whispered. She put her hand on the woman’s clenched fist but was ignored so she went back to her bed. Stupid question, really, she thought. We are obviously in the same plight.
Sometimes Delia could talk to people, touch them, make them feel a little better, it was a gift. She would have liked to have told Mrs. Chang about her heeling powers but the social worker didn’t strike Delia as someone who could give a rap about anything so nebulous and farfetched. Delia imagined she would sarcastically ask why she couldn’t help herself if her powers were so great. All of these things were on Delia’s mind that second night in the shelter as she listened to the broken human sounds around her. Delia could detect those that came from the body and those that stemmed from the heart. Some came from a troubled mind. As her own mind filed all the questions and impressions from the day, and those firmly entrenched in the now, she hoped her brain activity wasn’t too noisy. She made it through her first two days of homelessness and for that she wished she could thank God but since giving up her drug of choice, she really had no one to talk to.
Delia wasn’t as lonely in the shelter without a higher power as she expected to be. She had never slept in a crowd before; it was incredibly annoying and soothing at the same time. She was tempted to tell the sobbing woman that there was someone watching over her, ready to help with her problems but she held back; she didn’t want anyone to fall under the same spell she had been under for so many years. She vowed to advocate only bootstraps and self-reliance, tough-love and nose-to-the-grindstone if anyone should ask. Would that, could that be enough solace for the woman who had stopped crying and the one who was moaning in her sleep? What will become of all of us? she thought. Then she rolled over and did not wait for an answer.
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